The House on the River by Fred M. White

There was no doubt whatever about it. The man confronting Enderby with a smirk on those thin lips of his, and the light shinning in his ferret eyes was none other than Kent, the jackal and financial lion's provider to John Claw. Both the men hiding behind the curtain had come in contact with him on more than one occasion, and both of them deeply regretted that they had ever heard that wily scoundrel's name. He had not exactly been in Claw's employ; that is, he was not a regular clerk on the establishment. Occasionally he worked in Claw's office, but usually his business was to be outside, picking up all sorts of dubious information and luring victims into his master's web.

He was a little, tiny rat of a man, red as a fox, and cunning as a weasel, and despite his poor physique there was a certain assurance about him now that boded ill for Enderby, who was still writing at his table. At a little cough from the intruder Enderby looked round and, as he saw who his visitor was, the agitation on his face deepened for a moment, then he turned with a murderous glance that caused Kent to smile. Evidently he was not in the least afraid of the man he had come to see.